


Let's Call it Scientific Curiosity

by Azlykumos



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Summoner Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), discussions on tempering, headcanons abound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azlykumos/pseuds/Azlykumos
Summary: Emet-Selch stands before the Warrior of Light, and answers some questions.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	1. Data Collection

**Author's Note:**

> What will you say? 
> 
> > Tell me about Zodiark.  
> > Nothing springs to mind.

Emet-Selch gave a sigh that spoke of boredom, rather than exhaustion. “Will you never grow tired of shuffling your feet? If you have something to ask, then _ask.”_

Nive frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “… Tell me about Zodiark. You said he was a primal that your people summoned.”

“And what is it that interests you?” He asks, feigning ignorance and boredom. The very notion that she was interested in Zodiark interested _him._ “The fact that He and your Mother are primals, or the idea that they were _summoned_ and you are a _summoner.”_

The miqo’te flicked one ear, simply staring at him. “That’s part of it. But more…” 

“… Ah, you wish to know if we are tempered.” He muses. “I suppose it’s only a natural question, given your inclination to deal with primals and their after effects. Yes, he enthralled us all. It was only natural, there is no resisting such a power.”

“But you can still think and reason,” she pointed out, tilting her head at him. “Other thralls can’t do that, they can only serve their god and think only of them.” 

“Oh? And how do you know that I am any different?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps they simply don’t wish to think, and be lost in their god’s embrace.” 

“Please, we both know that’s not true,” she snorted, and patted the grimoire at her side. “I’ve been fighting Primals for a long time, and I’ve studied them extensively. The only other thralls like you I’ve come across were Sophia’s. They were devoted to their Goddess, but they spoke and reasoned, did more than simply try to enthrall us.”

“Ah, Sophia…” he mused, leaning against the wall of the Occular. “A fascinating Goddess, obsessed with Balance, with most of her Enlightened coming to her willingly. You would liken me to her thralls?” 

“It’s the only basis I have,” she said patiently, as if talking to a novice. “And if I could, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Zodiark’s hold over you.” 

“Invasive little creature, aren’t you?” He asked, one corner of his mouth curling upwards. “To what end?” 

“Understanding,” she shrugged at him. “Maybe a possible clue as how to reverse the effects of tempering.”

“Have you ever considered that I wouldn’t want to be ‘cured’ of my tempering?” He asked back, his tone placid. 

She paused. Her claws went _taptaptap_ on the spine of her book, and she looked away from him, clearly considering.

“What benefits do you gain from being His thrall? Clearly as a creature of darkness the Everlasting Light hurts you, as well as other side effects. Ascians are all tempered by Zodiark, yes? Their primary element must be Dark, and they’re hurt by others…” Nive murmured, her mind working away. “Was it by His blessing that you were forced to use crystals of darkness to possess others, to protect your souls?”

He lifted his brow, not expecting her to make that leap so soon. How _fascinating._ Then again, considering the color of her soul… 

“Ascians are creatures of darkness, and we exist to bring about Zodiark’s darkness to the world.” He said instead of actually answering her question. “Some might call it evil, but … it would be a fool’s definition, by those who do not understand the true nature of our universe.” 

Nive frowned up at him, her brows furrowing together in thought. 

“Truly, I’ve no need to lie to you,” Emet-Selch shrugged. “And even if I did, it would be quite indistinguishable from the truth.” 

“You say that, but I wonder if you’re telling me the whole truth, not simply part of it,” Nive said softly. “Feeding me bits and pieces to hope I’ll be interested enough to see your side of things.” 

Emet-Selch’s smile widened. “Is it working, hero?” 

“Yes.” She said simply, staring up at him. “Who were you, before Zodiark tempered you? Surely you were someone.” 

“Does it matter?” He asked, genuinely curious. 

“Yes. It always matters,” she murmured, closing her eyes briefly. “Every single time. It matters.”


	2. Internal Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will you say?
> 
> > Three of you escaped the sundering. But what of those who didn't...?   
> > I think we've talked enough.

“You said three of you escaped the Sundering, but what of those that didn’t?” The miqo’te asked, tipping her face up to look at him. She was back to wearing one of her ridiculous hats, the kind that covered up her ears, and the brim was pulled down to overshadow her eyes. 

It made Emet-Selch nostalgic for the days that she wore the mask. 

“Their very being were divided, of course,” he responded, watching her closely. “Fourteen times, the same as everyone else. Yet by our power, we unsundered can raise up one of the fragments to their original office.” 

“Office?” She asked, tilting her head. 

“Hmm…” he made a show of considering it, of withholding the information. “I suppose it bears explaining. The names you know us as— that being Lahabrea, Igeyorhm, Elidibus— are simply titles of office. When one is vacated, it may be filled by another. I have witnessed and even helped in the changing of the guard among our sundered brethren.” 

“Who, then, does the vacant seat go to?” She asked, tapping her claws against the spine of her grimoire. “I would think fragments of the same soul, if you Ascians seek to restore old friends.” 

“My, my, my,” Emet-Selch laughed, clapping his hands for her. “You catch on quickly. Yes, you have the right of it, though not for the reasons you think. We could raise up unrelated souls. Say, yours, or those two sisters of yours, for example.” 

Underneath the brim of her hat, Nive’s eyes narrowed.

“Please, stop with the glaring,” he said, shrugging and slouching back against the wall of the Occular. “Even if I had a desire to, I wouldn’t. ‘Tis we whose fervent entreaties brought forth Lord Zodiark─whose souls He claimed in the beginning─who make the truest servants. You and that family of yours would not serve my god well.”

“Are you saying that every Ascian soul that is of the red masks once helped summon Zodiark forth? What of the black masked Ascians? Don’t tell me they’re akin to secretaries.” She huffed in derision.

“Secre—“ he couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Where ever did you get that idea?” 

Nive held up a hand, bringing down a finger as she rattled off names. “The Ascian with the golem, in Summerford. I still don’t know what he was doing around there. Hel and Shining told me they experienced something similar in Gridania and Blackbrush. The Ascian that corrupted the Ruby Princess, in the Shisui of Violet Tides. Ascian of the Twelfth Chalice, who took the corpse of another summoner, and was using it to sow chaos. He also had two others with him. Oh, the repeated and increasing summonings of Garuda, Ifrit, and Titan that plagued Eorzea for moons after Ultima Weapon was defeated.” 

With each Ascian listed, Emet-Selch’s eyebrows rose higher. He didn’t even know about the Ruby Princess one. 

“In short, all low level jobs of sowing chaos, but they all wear the mask of black.” She said, staring up at him. “Do you just give them menial tasks? Go here for this moon, sow this much amount of chaos?” 

“You’re rather flippant over all this, aren’t you?” He asked, a grin curling over his lips. “In short… yes. We bequeath them power, and they, in turn, help us set things in motion for larger acts. In fact, several of the ‘secretaries’ as you call them, helped me start my dictatorship of Garlemald.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” She sighed, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “I had theorized as much after I defeated the Twelfth Chalice. Tell me — are any of the black masks the same fragment of a red mask’s soul? Or would it create a conflict of interest?” 

“Pardon me, are you asking about Ascian internal politics?” He asked politely, covering up his fascination with amusement. She really did delve to the heart of it quickly, didn’t she. 

“Well?” She asked after a beat of silence. Her tail swished behind her, the only betrayal of her impatience. 

“You’re like a dog with a bone, not wont to let it go once you’ve sunk your teeth into it,” he observed in amusement. Then again, she always was. “It goes for a case by case basis. Igeyorhm, for example, never worked well with any of her shards. Each coveted the high seat, and each was jealous of the current holder. Halmarut, however, is fair and works well with their own fragments.” 

“And do the black masks keep their own name, or do you give them titles of office as well?” She asked, a gleam in her eye. Her fingers were tapping against the spine of her grimoire again. 

Truly this conversation was going far better than he hoped. She was asking questions, even trading wary jokes with him. It was a marked improvement. 

“That is actually up to the Ascian in question,” he responded. “Many chose to use a title instead of their name, while others do not.” 

“What is your name? If you don’t wish to share it, fine, but I find it fascinating.” She said, staring up at him. “Do the other Ascians use your name, or do they only refer to you as Emet-Selch?” 

“Hmph, there may be a day that I reveal that to you, but alas, it is not this day,” he said, waving a hand. “Of course, you may die being none the wiser, but then… life is just full of such disappointments, now isn’t it?” 

The miqo’te looked up at him, eyes slightly narrowed and calculating. It was almost adorable, how hard she was trying to figure him out. 

And then she swept the rug out from underneath him with her next question. 

“And what name would you give me, if you were to raise me up?” She asked, her voice ringing throughout the room. 

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Simply stared down at her, a confusing torrent of emotion twisting its way through his soul. She didn’t know her own name. Of course not, how could she? That too was taken from her, just like everything else. 

“Daedalus,” he finally said, after what felt like an eternity. The single word was torn from his lips like a strangled plea. Recognize it. Remember it. 

“… Daedalus,” she repeated. Her eyes betrayed nothing, not even a hint of emotion. No shock of emotion, no recognition. 

And simply like that, she cut him in twain. 

“Don’t you have places to be, Hero?” He asked, waving his hand. He looked away from her, folding his hands across his chest. “A Lightwarden to slay?” 

He couldn’t bear to look at this pathetic fragment in front of him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm naming my 14th Daedalus, because they were actually the one to create most of the Concepts behind Zodiark, before realizing that the solution of giving the Star a will wouldn't work. I don't have much but the name, and their relationship with Emet-Selch so far.


	3. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Record Playback: Daedalus and Hades, Final Confrontation

The sky overhead was cracking like glass, streaking with light and dark as two impossibly powerful deities fought, carrying the will of their people in their strange wings. A trail of aether led from one of them, the  _ light soaked  _ creature, down, down to the ground, ending in the hands of the one person Hades wanted to find. 

“Daedalus!” He cried, fighting past the upheavals around them. “Daedalus, what are you  _ doing?!” _

His hood pushed down, and streaks of dirt all over his immaculate face, Daedalus turned, and flashed Hades a brief smile. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m fixing your mistake.” 

Hades skidded to a halt, his robes flaring behind him, and he watched as yet more of his friend’s life-aether was siphoned off by the  _ creature _ in the sky. He’d lost his mask somewhere along the way, and his hood had fallen off, and his white hair was almost black with soot and debris flying through the air. 

“My mistake?” He demanded, drawing himself upright. “ _ My mistake,  _ Daedalus?!” 

“You took my research,” Daedalus shot back, and lifted his arms up higher, voice wavering for a moment. “I  _ told _ you the Zodiark Project wasn’t complete, I told you that it was a desperate bid, that it wouldn’t actually save any of us, and you. Didn’t. Listen.” 

Daedalus lifted his arms up higher, and the aether of his very  _ soul _ was becoming unbound, becoming nothing more than food for the wretched Goddess that he had somehow fashioned. 

“You’re never satisfied with your projects!” Hades yelled back, and tried to step closer. But the sheer  _ light _ pouring from his friend hurt him, and he couldn’t manage more than a few steps. “It worked fine! We’re saved, the Star is saved!” 

“You  _ stole my research!” _ Daedalus shrieked, and his arms came down to point angrily at Hades. “My best friend, the only person I ever trusted, and you betrayed me! Worse, you didn’t believe me!” 

“The world was at stake, the very fate of our Star!” Hades shouted back, his hands balling into fists, and reflexively checking the state of his dear friend’s soul. It was faded now, washed out. “You would have me deny our people the salvation of their lives, their very souls, simply because of your legendary perfectionism?!” 

“This isn’t salvation, this is  _ slavery _ .” Daedalus hissed, his face tipping down to look at him. “Worse, you don’t even realize just how deep He sunk His claws into you. You’re nothing but His servant anymore, you’re not my friend.” 

Daedalus hesitated, and looked back up at where Hydaelyn and Zodiark were preparing for another clash. 

“Maybe you never were.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure where to stuff this tiny thing, so into this fic it goes. Written pre 5.2


	4. Bodily Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will you say?
> 
> >Why choose this form here on the First?  
> >Actually... Nevermind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was written for the FFXIVWrite2020, for the prompt "Muster". I've actually been meaning to write this for a while, but it wasn't until this prompt came around (and my salvaging of this particular bit of dialogue) that I was able to really get around to it. I'm actually posting all of my prompts over at @thecat-inthehat.tumblr if you'd like to see, but this one deserved to be added to my previous conversations for this fic. 
> 
> This is set during the first time Emet-Selch shows up in Rak'tika, and your first interactive conversation with him.

The comforting shade of the trees overhead thankfully blocked out the Light overhead, making it at least _somewhat_ bearable. Emet-Selch could only stand so much Light in a given day, thank you very much, and even beneath the shaded boughs of the Rak’tika greatwood was cutting it. 

Then again, with the amount of shade being thrown his way from the _Scions_ he needn’t worry overmuch. 

The group was milling about amongst themselves, with the roegadyn woman and the hyur man having a furious discussion, and the hyur woman and elezen man both giving him glares. The young blonde girl with _strange_ eyes was staring at him, but she seemed to do that with everyone, so he didn’t take much offence. What _did_ interest him was the miqo’te wearing a hat who’s tail was flicking left and right like she was about to pounce on some unsuspecting victim. She glanced at her companions, then at him, then seemed to square her shoulders. 

It was an interesting effect, really, to watch her gather herself up like she was about to march out into the front lines, facing off as a general against a battlefield. It was nostalgic almost, reminding Emet-Selch once again of his days in Garlemald, of pushing his weak mortal body into the frontlines and carving out a path to victory with nothing more than the gunblade in his hand and the luck of the draw. She reminded him very much of his second in command, he reflected, the poise, the sharp eye underneath her hat. 

The Warriors Three were formidable adversaries, but time and time again the most _dangerous_ of them proved to be the miqo’te. Technically the weakest out of all of them, she had shown an aptitude for tactics and strategy that had bested several Ascians singlehandedly, and caused the permanent demise of Nabriales, Igheyorm, and _Lahabrea_. 

To say that he was nervous over her marching straight up to him like a captain about to draw a line in the sand over his spilled entrails was a _bit_ of an understatement. 

“What is it now, then?” He drawled, slouching ever so slightly more to give off the illusion of being less threatening. “Do you expect me to regale you with _friendly banter_ like your dear companions?” 

“Not at all, you’re not my friend.” The miqo’te said, tipping her head back to look at him. “Instead I have some questions, if you don’t mind.” 

“... Oh, very well. I will humor you this once. You may consider it my latest act of good faith.” Emet-Selch said, sniffing in mock disdain. Hopefully she wouldn’t ask any particularly prying questions as to their plans. “Come on, then. What do you wish to know?“

“Why chose this form here on the First?” she asked, tilting her head at him. “As far as we’ve seen, there’s no other Garleans around on the First, so you obviously wanted to be _spotted_ by us, or at least be conspicuous. Nevermind the fact that you’re wearing Garlean clothes, clothes that only have importance to the scant few of us that actually recognize them. So... why? Why not hide and use some other face?” 

_What_. 

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch drawled, intentionally dragging out the words to give him time to think. What the hell kind of question was that? “What a curious question. Hm... Mortal flesh is but the vessel into which we Ascians pour the elixir of our souls, molding it as fits the occasion. Or not, if we so choose.“ 

“So you can--” She started, then cut herself off, and waved for him to continue. 

Emet-Selch’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t what he expected at all. “Be it for a year or a millennium, I prefer to retain the same form until my duty is done. So, after arriving here in the First, I fashioned some hapless body into the man you see before you.” 

The miqo’te’s eyes narrowed at him, as if she thought he was trying to trick her. “Did you take a corpse, or a living being? I was under the impression that corpses were easier to possess, given how Ascians operate, but then again, with Lahabrea overtaking Thancred...” 

“Ah... Lahabrea,” Emet-Selch sighed. “He was ever the rash one. Jumping from vessel to vessel. Never heeding the toll it took on him. We can choose to forgo molding our vessels as we wish, as Lahabrea did, or keeping the same form for eons. It merely depends.” 

“... You make it sound as though Lahabrea’s willingness to ‘put up’ with his host’s looks is what tired him out,” the woman said, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her claws against her arm. They were covered in tattoos, in what looked like aetheric ink, and Allagan in nature. Summoning sigils, unless he missed his mark. 

“Well... yes. As powerful as our souls are, our identity is, in part, shaped by how we present ourselves,” Emet-Selch mused. “To jump from vessel to vessel without due consideration for ourselves strips our _self_ away bit by agonizing bit. To continue to keep a form, to impose it onto the host we have chosen to bear our souls, it helps ground us. To pretend to be anything other than what we are for too long would give rise to falsehoods and madness.” 

The woman tapped her claws against her arm again, clearly thinking through a problem. “So the masks that you identify yourselves with aren’t just to keep your faces away from _us_ , but to keep your selves for ... yourself.” 

Emet-Selch blinked. And blinked again. She wasn’t _wrong_ , per se, but... Lacking context. “A fascinating speculation. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.” 

“Then how long have you had _this_ form, then?” She asked, instead of continuing on with her previous observation. “If it’s the late Emperor of Garlemald, surely your job would be done by now, you’ve passed on, and your Empire will implode in less than twenty years, hopefully ushering in another Calamity.” 

“My, my, _spicy_ today, aren’t we?” Emet-Selch laughed. “You’re not wrong. I had thought my job done as well, but then my _dear_ grandson saw fit to ... actually do his job. And I couldn’t have that. So out of the depths of the dead I came to steer Garlemald on it’s rightful course.” 

“Varis did seem rather incompetent,” she murmured. “At least he wasn’t as stupid as Zenos, however. But still, how long have you had this particular form? If you’ve had it in order to usher in another Calamity, then wouldn’t you have had the chance to change it, or mysteriously die once the Seventh came crashing down?” 

Oh he _liked_ this one. He was keeping this one. 

“True, but the Seventh was not actually my doing. I have been working on another, so my form is ... more dependent on that. Haven’t you noticed that the sin eaters look an awful lot like the golems in the ruins of Amdapor?” Emet-Selch asked, smiling down at her. 

Her claws paused, and she squinted up at him from underneath the brim of her hat. She considered him for a long, long moment, then smirked. “Oh, Y’shtola’s going to be _so_ mad at me, because I just won our bet.” 

Emet-Selch’s peals of laughter rang around the forest, and he nearly doubled over from the force of it. He stood back up and wiped the slight tears from his eyes, and glanced down at her. “You never cease to amuse me, Warrior of Light. Tell me, what is your name?” 

“Nivelth Ajuyn,” She said, rolling her eyes. “Though honestly you should know that by now.” 

“Yes, but you haven’t introduced yourself to me properly,” Emet-Selch chuckled once more. “Nivelth Ajuyn, then. I don’t suppose you have a shorter name?” 

She gave him a wry smile, and offered her hand for him to shake. 

“Nive.” 


End file.
